


An Alternate Flatmate (with silver hair and a handsome face)

by awoof



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU - John Watson never shows up, Lestrade is the new John, M/M, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 05:02:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7253518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awoof/pseuds/awoof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock miscalculates and John never becomes his flatmate, and in which Lestrade shows up at the right place and at the right time. An alternate universe where John is never a thing and we explore the blossoming romance between a consulting detective and his alternate flatmate.</p><p>**chapters 2 and 3 edited as of 24/7.<br/>This is work in progress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Alternate Flatmate (with silver hair and a handsome face)

**Author's Note:**

> I just started this on a whim while writing another longer, planned story, so much of the plot is still open-ended for now. If you have any suggestions for how the story should plan out, leave a comment down below and I will be one very happy person :o)

The wink should have worked.

It should have.

“The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street.”

Now though, however, standing silently in front of the window and gazing contemplatively onto the hollow street, Sherlock has to admit that he has made a minor miscalculation.

Maybe he marked down the wrong address. Maybe his taxi was stuck in traffic. Maybe. A lot of maybes, and a thousand reasons as to why a certain ex-military doctor isn’t hesitating on the front-steps of his flat. He had been so sure, so confident that he had seen through his heart and identified that recklessness that would lead him to wander into the streets of 221B and right into his left-hand man in crime-solving. He was sure he had found the right one. The perfect complement, if one believes in such things as soulmates.

A twinge of sour hollowness rises up to his throat.

 _A soulmate_ , Mycroft sneered, peering down at him with condescension, _why, Sherlock, surely you know better than the wishful thinking of a simpleton._

Over is over. The man, John, will never come. 221B will remain empty, clinical, as it has always been.

Perhaps it is better this way. He doesn’t expect the man to stay long anyway.

Sherlock sweeps a last wishful glance at the empty street and steps away from the window. Just as he is about to swish the curtains close, however, he notices a small figure at the end of the street bobbling into view.

Hope blossoms in his heart and he just manages not to do a little victory dance in the middle of the room. He quickly grapples at the side of the curtain to pull it a little more wide open and stands right up next to the window. It is still a little bit too far for him to identify the man, but he knows it. It has to be the doctor. John Watson. The perfect complement that his brother, the ever pessimist, dismissed.

But it is nearly at the same moment that his heart plummets to the rock-bottom again. The man is walking perfectly fine. John, however, must have carried his cane and limped slightly as he walks.

Ergo, not John. Mycroft is right, as usual.

Disappointed, he shuts the curtain and stalks back into his bedroom.

He has barely closed his bedroom door when there is a knock at the door downstairs, followed by some heavy footsteps on the stairs.

Sherlock stifles an irritated groan and rolls his eyes. Of course it’s Lestrade. He should have known it when he caught a glimpse of silver hair on that mysterious figure.

He’s not here for a case though. He isn’t running up the stairs hurriedly like he always does whenever there is a case, nor has he driven his cruiser here. He’s here for personal matters, which ninety percent of the time translates roughly to ‘Mycroft’s handler’.

He doesn’t even bother to knock; he just helps himself inside comfortably. Rude, Sherlock thinks idly.

He hears the detective inspector stops unexpectedly at the lack of Sherlock Holmes in the living room or the kitchen table, then, after some awkward shuffling, asks to the empty room, “Sherlock, are you here?”

Sherlock tries to mentally will the man away.

Hesitant footsteps comes closer to his bedroom, and then Lestrade knocks on the door.

“I know you are here, Sherlock, just bloody open up and stop pretending to be invisible.”

Sherlock sighs in frustration and stomps to the door with a little more force than necessary.

“What is it, Lestrade,” Sherlock deadpans as he opens the door.

“Why are you hiding in your bedroom…” Lestrade asks with a confused expression, but then a smirk begins to tug at the corner of his lips as he pieces some of the circumstantial evidences together. “Am I interrupting something, Sherlock?”

Cheeky bastard.

“For your information, no, I am not engaging in any self-pleasing sexual activities,” he says, and nearly smiles as he sees the disappointment on Lestrade’s face. “Do you have anything else besides your spectacularly erroneous deductions?”

“Well,” he cleared his throat, and Sherlock was momentarily distracted by the movement of his stubbled-jaw, “I just went back home earlier today only to find that my flat has flooded. I can’t go back in until they had fixed the pipes and cleared the water, and then I remembered you had an empty guest room upstairs, so um… I came here to see if you could let me sleep the night.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow in surprise. Not because of the unexpected flooding, but the fact that Lestrade has come to him instead of staying at a hotel. Though he has to admit this is the more reasonable and economically sound decision to make.

“Sheets in the second drawer. Towels in the third. You can borrow my pyjamas. We are roughly the same size,” Sherlock says and promptly digs out a pair of spare pyjamas from the wardrobe. Lestrades takes it and thanks him.

“Thirty quid a night,” Sherlock says. Lestrade freezes for a moment and then chuckles.

“Bastard.”

For the first time in months, Sherlock smiles and watches as Lestrade turns around and trots up to his temporary bedroom.

 

Sharing a flat with someone is a nice change. Different, but nice.

At the moment, as he fiddles at his microscope while Lestrade makes breakfast for the two of them (well, he probably won’t eat and Lestrade will have to eat a double portion, but Lestrade insisted so he let him do whatever he wanted), he momentarily forgets the flatmate he had planned that is supposed to be puttering nearby and providing some medical expertise on his cases. Also making him coffee and buying the groceries and dealing with Mrs. Hudson.

A cup of coffee slips next to his microscope along with a plate of sausages and eggs, and then a familiar body settled into the chair next to him.

“Not hungry,” he declares reflexively.

Lestrades barks a laugh. “That’s not yours, you twit,” he says as he pulls the plate to himself and starts cutting up the sausages.

Sherlock huffs and grabs the cup of coffee for himself. He takes a sip. Black. Two sugars. Just the way he makes it.

“How did you know I take coffee this way?” he asked with a frown.

“I didn’t know. I just take it this way myself,” Lestrade shrugged and took a bite of the sausage. “Mmmm. This is good,” he groaned.

Sherlock gulps and shoots a quick glance at Lestrade’s mouth. He immediately shifts his focus back to the coffee when Lestrade looks his way.

“Thank Mycroft. He sends people to restock the fridge with fancy Italian branded food every week.”

“Hm. Next time he kidnaps me I will advise him to hire you a cook instead. Can’t let all this good food get wasted, can we?”

“I will start a riot against your incompetent co-workers if you dare to insinuate to my brother such a thing.”

“I will assign Dimmock to you if you verbally abuse Sally or Anderson again.”

“Dimmock won’t work with me,” Sherlock says confidently.

“I can abuse my powers,” Lestrade muses.

“No you won’t.”

“Yes I will.”

“I know you too well, Gavin.”

“Greg,” Lestrade corrects automatically. “I know you are doing this on purpose, Sherlock. You can’t rile me up with this,” he grins.

“George.”

“Ridiculous.”

“Gertrude.”

“That… is that even a boy’s name?”

“It means ‘spear’ and ‘strength’. I think it suits you well,” Sherlock replies nonchalantly and winks.

Lestrade flushes and clears his throat.

“I am going to wash the dishes,” he says, and quickly gets up from the table and collects the utensils.

Sherlock smirks and gets back to his petri dish.


End file.
